Chapter 1: Rebirth

His head was ringing, and his mouth tasted of dirt. Coughing, he tried to get himself back up onto his feet, but his limbs weren't working properly, and he went crashing back onto the ground.

"Cregan! Cregan are you ok?" A familiar voice asked.

'Cregan? That's not my name…' He thought. Worry filled him as he didn't understand what had happened. 'Last thing I remember was dying. I died. I died?'

He began to breathe heavily, hyperventilating. Rough hands grabbed his middle and shifted him over so he was on his back, and Torrhen Stark, the King in the North, stared up at the familiar face of long dead Ser Rodrik Cassel, his famed white sideburns long enough to tie underneath his neck.

"Get up lad." The knight told him, and Torrhen sat up, his head still pounding.

"Someone called me Cregan?" He asked.

"Someone is too invested in their game." Ser Rodrik said judgingly, looking over at a boy no older than 14. Torrhen followed his gaze, and audibly gasped at the sight of his long dead older brother looking healthy and young again, and Robb Stark was looking down at him concerned.

"He was Cregan Stark, I was Daeron the Young." Robb said bashfully, and Torrhen felt a tear run down his cheek at seeing his elder brother once more.

"Am I dead?" He whispered, but Rodrik heard him.

"You had a wooden sword rapped around your head Torrhen, not a steel mace." Rodrik shook his head. "No lad, you're very much alive, and you'll be fine."

Torrhen felt his small iron shield on his left arm and quickly unstrapped it, letting it fall to the muddy ground of the courtyard. He began to take in his surroundings then, as men and women moved around getting on with their days. Winterfell itself looked different than Torrhen remembered, older. There were no wooden barricades detailing the courtyards, the walls were still intact, and he couldn't hear the roaring of the dragons overhead.

"The White Walkers…" Torrhen said, confused. "What happened?"

A laugh came from Robb. "I didn't hit you that hard did I?" He asked. "I hit him so hard he's believing in Old Nan's tales." He chuckled off to one side, where Torrhen saw a grinning Theon Greyjoy. The Stark growled and began to leap up to his feet to pummel the Ironborn, but Ser Rodrik held him down.

"You're concussed." He said flatly. "Come, I'm taking you to the Maester's Tower. Robb, spar with Theon. Wooden swords only!" He told Robb.

Torrhen was hoisted up to his feet and felt himself being marched away. He saw Mikken at his forge, and Farlen the Kennel master and his daughter, Palla, walking the hounds. All the people that had worked at Winterfell from before his Father was beheaded were here, and Torrhen laughed aloud. "I don't want to wake up." He told himself. Ser Rodrik just ignored him, and Torrhen, almost deliriously, kept talking to himself. "I do hope Wolkan survived." He said.

"Who's Wolkan?" Rodrik asked, as they entered the tower and began to climb some stairs.

"The Maester." Torrhen shrugged as if it was obvious.

"By the Gods boy how hard were you hit?" Rodrik asked exasperatedly.

Torrhen chuckled. "It is nice to see you Ser Rodrik. Ser Barristan was a fine teacher, but I could have done with your wisdom while in Meereen."

Rodrik actually began to look concerned at that moment, but they had arrived at the Maester's chambers so he just knocked on the door urgently. "I'm coming!" A voice shouted from inside, and Maester Luwin opened it.

"Oh." Torrhen answered sadly. "Then I must be dead."

"My Lord?" The Maester asked.

Rodrik sighed. "He's talking nonsense, Maester. I think he's concussed. Took a blow to the head in training and is talking about being in Meereen, and White Walker's. Thought you were named Wolkan."

"Wolkan is the new Maester, Ser. He brought my son into the world." Torrhen replied, before his face fell in sadness. "I hope he survived the attack…"

Rodrik and Luwin shared a concerned look. "I'll give him some sweetsleep." Luwin nodded. "Go and tell Lord Stark that he is here and explain what has happened."

Rodrik nodded, and Torrhen was sad to see his old mentor go. Maester Luwin began preparing the sleeping draught, quickly finishing it and placing it beside the bed alongside a cup of water. "You'll want to take this, Torrhen." Luwin told him kindly. "But drink this first. You need fluids and bed rest."

Torrhen shook his head softly. "I need to find Dany and Jon, and I need to make sure the baby is safe. Nothing can happen to him, he has to survive."

"Who?" Luwin asked kindly, sitting beside Torrhen as he took a sip of the water.

"Cregan." Torrhen answered. "My boy, the Prince of the North."

"Prince?" Luwin asked.

Torrhen chuckled. "Yes, Prince." He replied, before he scowled. "When Robb became King and was murdered cowardly by Roose Bolton, I became King in the North. My son is a Prince. You should know this, Maester, you didn't die until after we claimed independence."

Those words worried Luwin more than most, but he couldn't let them affect him. "Come, My Lord. Drink this." He held the sweetsleep up to Torrhen's lips, tipping the thick liquid into his mouth. Torrhen swallowed it all, and Luwin helped him settle down onto the bed. "You'll feel better in the morning."

Torrhen's eyes began to close, and once again his mind drifted off into nothingness.

"AAARGH!" Torrhen awoke with a scream, his hands rushing to his stomach where the ice-cold blade had pierced him. Panting and sweating, he sat up in his bed gasping for breath. As his vision came back to him, he saw he was in his old room in Winterfell, the candles flickering softly against the moonlit chamber. He turned to the window and saw the shadowy features of a young girl stood against the wall away from him.

"It's ok." His twin sister's voice came to his ears soothingly. "You're alright, Tor."

"Sansa." Torrhen whispered. "Thank the gods you're alive."

Sansa stepped forwards, concern on her face. "Alive? Of course I'm alive you fool."

Torrhen smiled weakly. "Then my sacrifice wasn't in vain. What about Cregan? Is he alright?"

"What are you on about?" Sansa asked. "Who's Cregan?"

"My son…" Torrhen said slowly.

Sansa laughed aloud. "Robb really did hit you hard." She giggled.

"What?" Torrhen was confused. "No, Robb died at the Twins."

Her facial features morphed into a scolding look. "Don't even jape about that." Sansa said sharply. "That's not funny."

Torrhen pushed himself backwards so that his back was leaning against the headboard. He had been dressed in an oversized undershirt that fell loosely over his body, and for the first time Torrhen noticed that he was smaller than he remembered. "The afterlife is cruel." He remarked quietly.

"Tor you're scaring me." Sansa said stepping closer and grabbing Torrhen's hand. He looked at her properly, her youthful features bearing none of the internal scars that she had felt after Joffrey and Ramsay, and she looked younger than he remembered.

"What is this?" He asked. The door opened then as Maester Luwin walked in with a couple of vials.

"How are you feeling?" Luwin asked.

"My head's sore, but everything is wrong…" Torrhen trailed off. "This is wrong…"

"He said that Robb was dead, and that he sacrificed himself." Sansa said shakily. "He mentioned a son…"

Luwin smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "My Lord, you are 11 years old, you're a bit young to be siring children."

"I'm… No, I'm 20." Torrhen corrected him, but he wasn't so sure as he looked down at himself and saw a younger body, his bare chest hairless and thinner than he was used to.

"I think some more sweetsleep until you're recovered." Luwin said softly. "Your concussion is causing you delusions, Torrhen. It will all become clearer soon."

Torrhen began shaking his head, but Sansa squeezed his hand. "Don't worry, Tor. I'll stay with you." She said soothingly. "I'll be the knight this time, and you can be the maiden I must protect." Torrhen was about to ridicule that, but Luwin forced the contents of the vial into his mouth once more and Torrhen felt himself dropping off to sleep again.

It took a couple of days for Torrhen to realise that perhaps this wasn't the afterlife. The afterlife was supposed to be a happy place where everyone was glad to see him. Where his dead friends and family welcomed him along with his ancestors with open arms and feasted to tales of heroics, but this was different. Nobody knew anything about what had happened with the War of the 5 King's, nor with the Long Night. Everybody treated him exactly as they had done when he was just 11 years old, and not as the King he had once been.

The feeling of something being strange was compounded as he was having breakfast with his entire family. Keeping himself to himself, he just watched his siblings. Rickon was a lot smaller than he ever remembered, sitting in Catelyn's lap as she helped him eat. Ned was regaling Bran with a story about him and Robert Baratheon before the Tourney of Harrenhal had happened, and of course, Sansa and Arya were bickering.

"You're so stupid! Nobody cares if one bit of your hair is out of place!" Arya was exclaiming, messing Sansa's locks up with a ruffle.

"Arya stop it I've just had it done!" Sansa cried. "Mother!"

"Arya… leave Sansa alone." Cat said, distracted as Rickon was trying to escape. "No, Rickon. You stay and eat your beets." Rickon just pulled a face and slapped out at the table, causing the plate to tip the contents up over him. Robb and Jon burst into laughter at that as Rickon then began crushing the beets into his clothing. "Rickon! No!" Cat cried out, Sansa and Arya's play fighting forgotten.

"I'll take him, Mother." Sansa said unhappily, rising and straightening her skirts. "I need to redo my hair anyway."

"I'll shear it off next time." Arya grumbled as Sansa walked away holding the toddler Stark.

Ned shook his head, having heard. "You will not." He said sternly. "Your sister may be politer than you are, and she behaves like a proper Lady of the South, but I can still hear the shrieks from the last time her hair was cut without her agreement." He shuddered dramatically.

All eyes moved to Torrhen as the children of the Stark family began to laugh at the reminder of Torrhen's actions. "She wore a bonnet for weeks afterwards." Robb grinned. "How hard did she hit you again, Tor?"

"Not hard enough." Cat told them with a stern voice, yet her eyes flickered with amusement. Torrhen just kept looking at his plate, unspeaking. He drowned out the rest of the conversation, not sure on what was going on, until suddenly the meal was over and Robb and Jon had left to go to their sword lesson.

"Aren't you going too, Torrhen?" Ned asked kindly. Torrhen looked up at him in surprise. He noticed that his Mother was gone too.

"Urm…" He stammered out, now knowing what he was going to say.

Ned smiled softly. "The answer is yes. Go on, if you don't train you won't get as good as Cregan Stark did to make Ser Aemon the Dragonknight call him the best swordsman he had ever fought."

"Can you tell us the story?!" Bran asked excitedly.

"Another time, Bran." Ned patted his son on the head. "You have your lessons too."

"Oh…" Bran moaned, but he got up and skulked off towards the Maester's tower, leaving just Torrhen and Ned at the table.

Ned moved so he was sat next to Torrhen. "Are you feeling ok? I can have Luwin excuse you for another day if you're not feeling well."

Torrhen shook his head, still overwhelmed. "No, I'm… I'm fine Father."

Ned patted Torrhen on the shoulder. "Then off you go, Ser Rodrik will be expecting you."

Torrhen nodded and left the table, leaving Ned staring at his sons back, his mind filling with concern.

Ned's worry caused him to head over to the balcony that allowed him the best view over the training yard, and he looked down as Ser Rodrik was drilling Jon and Robb. He was impressed with them both, but especially his son as Robb pulled off a good feint and whacked Jon across the back with his wooden sword, sending Jon sprawling in the dirt.

"Match!" Ser Rodrik called. "Well done Robb, although you left yourself open on your left once again, a better swordsman would exploit that. Jon, try not to get led into where your opponent wants you to go."

"Yes, Ser Rodrik." The boys both said.

"Theon." Ser Rodrik called. "Test Torrhen on his backhanded swings."

Ned watched on as Torrhen and Theon Greyjoy moved into the centre of the courtyard this time, Theon looking as smug as he usually did as he held his wooden sword upright in a defensive stance. "Alright then, Stark. What have you got?"

Torrhen didn't wait, but he rushed right in and quickly disarmed an unsuspecting Theon, before smacking the Greyjoy around the face viciously with his wooden sword. "I said backhand only!" Rodrik roared.

Torrhen grimaced and flicked his wrist so his sword swung in a circle as he waited for Theon to get back into position. "Gods, Stark." The Greyjoy complained, rubbing his cheek. "Did Old Nan not give you your sweets this morning?" He grinned.

"He's angry." Cat's voice came from behind him, and Ned turned and smiled at his wife, before his face set once more.

"Aye, he's been off ever since he sparred with Robb days ago, but I've never seen him like this." Ned admitted. "He's better, too. That disarm, I've never seen him move so quickly. He's like…"

"Like what?" Cat asked.

"Like a man who's seen war." Ned told her ominously as Torrhen moved quickly once again, sticking to the backhand blows. His power again disarmed Theon, and the next blow sent the Ironborn heir reeling, but Torrhen didn't stop there, hitting Theon repeatedly, screaming as he did. In the end it took all three of Rodrik, Robb and Jon to pull Torrhen off of Theon.

"That's enough!" Rodrik roared, ripping the wooden sword from Torrhen's hands. "I don't know what's gotten into you today, but you are done. Get out of my sight!"

Torrhen glared at the elder man, before storming off in the direction of the Godswood. Ned turned to Cat, concerned. "What in the name of the Seven was that?" She whispered.

"Trouble." Ned said grimly. "I'll go and talk to him." He kissed his wife on the cheek and began to make his way down to follow his second eldest son.

He didn't understand what was happening. In his mind Torrhen believed he should still be preparing to face the White Walkers and the army of the dead, but instead he was back at Winterfell, seemingly back before everything had gone to the Seven Hells. He remembered that conversation from earlier, of Sansa bickering with Arya and Rickon smashing his food into his clothing. He remembered it from almost a decade ago, but it had happened today.

After his dismissal from the training yard, Torrhen fought the urge to end Greyjoy once and for all, and instead stormed off to the Godswood. The snow hadn't fallen yet thanks to wherever he was seemingly being in the heart of summer, but still the Weirwood Tree was spectacular. Torrhen fell to his knees before the tree, burying his face in the soil beneath the tree. "Why am I being tormented?" He spat out, his teeth clenched. "Is this my punishment? For the atrocities I did to win back Winterfell? For failing to love my wife?"

"This is no punishment, Torrhen Stark." An old voice came from behind the tree. Torrhen lifted his body so that he was simply kneeling before the tree, as an old man in black feathery clothing walked around the Weirwood tree and into view.

"Who are you?" Torrhen asked warningly. He got to his feet. "How did you get here?"

"It is yourself that you want to ask that question to, Black Wolf. Not me." The man said, and Torrhen knew he was right.

"Who am I?" He whispered.

"You are Torrhen, of House Stark. King of Winter." The man said. "But you are also simply Torrhen Stark, the eleven-year-old, second son of Lord Eddard."

"How is that possible?" Torrhen asked.

"The last time you were here…" The man began.

"I died." Torrhen spat bitterly. "I fought the Night King and I lost."

"You fought and you won." The man corrected. "You and your companions bled on the roots of the Weirwood in a manner that the Old Gods had not seen in millennia, and they granted you a second chance."

The information whirled around in Torrhen's head. "I've been put back into the past?"

The man nodded. "In a manner of speaking."

"So I can change it?" Torrhen asked. "I can change everything, I can save everyone?"

"Again, in a manner of speaking." The man said.

"What do you mean?" Torrhen asked angrily.

The man smiled and walked closer to Torrhen. "Reality is like a tree." He said, his hand brushing against the white bark. "Each branch has new circumstances. A different death, a new child born. The time your mind belongs to still exists, you died killing the Night King and the survivors of the Great War moved on. This is a separate branch, where you can shape the future to whatever you see fit."

Torrhen was beginning to understand. "Did Cregan…" He couldn't finish.

"Your son Cregan was officially crowned King Cregan when he was 6 years of age, and he lived to be 103." The man said happily. He waved his arms around and the scene shifted slightly.

Torrhen turned to see a middle-aged man sat down on the rock that Torrhen's Father loved so much, oiling a longsword that Torrhen recognised as his old Valyrian Steel blade, Winter's Bite. Around him ran two girls, no older than 7, and a younger boy of about 5. Torrhen watched as the girls giggled, ganging up on the boy and pushing him into the pond.

"Sara, Jonelle." The man warned kindly. "What have I said about picking on Torrhen?"

"He named his son after me?" Torrhen whispered.

The old man nodded. "He grew up on stories from your sister Sansa and your wife, and he revered you as a hero." The scene around them went back to Torrhen's own Godswood, although a tear was rolling down Torrhen's cheek. "He was known as Cregan the Great, leading the North into a period of peace and advancement, as well as proving his might on the battlefield when the Ghiscari revolted against Daenerys."

"Why did you show me that?" Torrhen whispered. "To show what I missed?"

"To put your mind at ease." The man said sharply. "You can forge yourself a new life here, one where you get to live to see your children grow old."

"A life where I alone am forced to convince everybody of a threat that they don't believe in." Torrhen said bitterly.

"You will not be alone." The old man told him. "The Old Gods are generous. They have allowed others to remember up until their own deaths in your timeline, but changes will be made, for only death pays for life."

Torrhen grew angrier at that. "Hasn't there been enough death!" He shouted. "I died here, in the spot I am standing now, amongst the bravest men and women we had! They all died to protect you!" He could see the old man recoil in surprise. "Yes, I know who you are, you are the Three Eyed Raven."

"Clever." The man smirked.

"Haven't enough people died?" Torrhen asked again.

"This is your reality, Torrhen Stark. Do not forget that." Bloodraven's old body told him. "Those that will remember will benefit your mission. Those that are sacrificed in order to bring them here will not. Use this knowledge wisely, or else you will meet the same end as you did in your other reality."

Torrhen snapped his eyes shut and balled his fists tightly. "I will not die fighting that monster again. I will not decorate my home with my blood!" He exclaimed again, opening his eyes.

To his surprise, the man had disappeared without a trace. Torrhen looked around frantically, trying to find him, although he stopped moving once he saw a figure towards the entrance of the Godswood. The figure of his own Father.

"What do you mean you won't die again?" Ned Stark asked him, glaring down at him and demanding an explanation with his cold, icy grey eyes.